


A Study in Friendship

by Tangerine



Category: Wallflower Series - Lisa Kleypas
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Lyra Sena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1846. Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent, tests the bonds of friendship with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Friendship

  
_London, 1846_   


"This," Sebastian remarked after a contemplative pause, "is utterly ridiculous."

Rohan, who was still reclining in the bush as if nothing was amiss, scratched a hand through his thick hair, blinking owlishly at the harsh morning light. "Which part?"

"All of it," Sebastian said decisively. "But mostly these damned awful wings."

~~~

The Wallflowers had descended on London with the fury of a lightning storm, forgetting propriety and making a scene outside of Sebastian and Evie's St. James-area household. Their bemused husbands looked on, having already entertained themselves with a round of firm handshakes. It was against convention that Evie was even out on the street, her belly round with his child, but as always, Sebastian encouraged scandalous behaviour.

"You look wonderful, Evie," Annabelle said, linking arms with Sebastian's glowing wife. Unlike Annabelle and Lillian, who had both wilted under the demands of pregnancy, Evie had blossomed, radiant and healthy, and Sebastian was secretly pleased by this turn of events. It was rare that Sebastian so thoroughly trounced Westcliff at anything.

"It's going to be a girl, I can just tell," Lillian announced, fitting her hands over Evie's waist. Lord and Lady Pembroke, who were out for their daily meander around the neighbour, clicked their tongues disapprovingly at the open display. "Oh, she moved!"

"Oh, I want to feel it. Out of the way, Lillian," Daisy said, knocking Lillian out of the way with a swing of her hips and curving her hands around the prominent bump. It was hard to believe they were related. The formerly-Bowman sisters had little in common beyond a propensity for trouble and a mutual dislike, but reluctant tolerance, of him.

"Gentlemen," Sebastian said, "may I offer you some brandy?"

~~~

"No," Rohan had said when Sebastian had first approached him.

Sebastian waved off his protests. "I demand you attend this function. Do you have any idea how tediously dull it is, listening to them discuss locomotives, inventions and soap all night?" Rohan was still shaking his head, and Sebastian added, "Christ, I'll _pay_ you."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll triple your salary."

Rohan held up a hand. "I don't want your money. I have too much as it is. You saw the returns on that blasted bazaar venture. You gave your word it would never succeed ..."

"Fine, then," Sebastian replied magnanimously, "I'll cut your salary in half."

"Tempting," Rohan said, grinning now, "but my answer remains unchanged."

"Rohan," Sebastian took a deep breath and forced the word out, " _please_."

" _No_."

Sebastian slapped his hands down on Rohan's desk. "I'll get Evie involved, man."

"They're your friends," Rohan muttered unhappily, and Sebastian knew he had him.

~~~

It was not that he did not like Westcliff, Hunt or Swift. On their own, he found each of them intelligent and interesting, but together they could put a corpse to sleep with their talk of engines, and hygiene, and industry. Sebastian's main concerns - sex and money - overlapped very little with their more innocent interests. Rohan, on the other hand, could be counted on to discuss matters of a sexual nature, though he abhorred money.

Rohan met them promptly at eight o'clock, dressed sharply in beige doeskin breeches, a loose white shirt, and a dark leather jerkin. Gold bands glittered around his fingers and through his ear. Swift, the least familiar with Rohan and too American to know how to mask his face, blinked visibly at his appearance, but Westcliff merely offered his hand.

"Rohan."

"Lord Westcliff," Rohan replied. "Mr. Hunt, Mr. Swift."

"No need for such formality, Rohan, we're all friends here," Hunt said.

Sebastian smirked, but held any biting comments for his own private amusement, collecting his coat and shrugging it on as Swift, Hunt and Westcliff did the same. Rohan caught Sebastian's gaze over Westcliff's shoulder and gave him the same withering look he tended to use before systematically pummelling a particularly obstinate club member.

Sebastian pretended not to notice.

~~~

"You work too much, Sebastian," Evie had said as he had dressed with the urgency of a man off to his execution. She lay reclined on the bed, rubbing her hands over her belly. "Lillian is adamant: absolutely no husbands allowed. To be honest, I'm a little scared."

"Lady Westcliff is a frightening woman." Sebastian finished tying his cravat with an expert tug then walked to the bed where Evie lay, the mattress dipping under his weight. "I don't know how Westcliff sleeps beside her without a dagger under his pillow."

Evie laughed softly, murmuring as Sebastian took one of her stocking-covered feet in his hands and began to briskly rub the sole between his palms. Her red hair blazed across the pillow as she tiled her head back. "That feels marvellous. My feet have tripled in size."

Sebastian kissed her instep. "Well, pet, you know what they say about large feet ..."

"T-they must have us confused," Evie replied, her words catching as he switched to the other one.

"Flattery will get your everywhere, sweetheart. Would you like your back rubbed?"

"Yes, please," Evie said, rolling onto her side. "And do try to have fun tonight."

"I'll be on my best behaviour," Sebastian assured her, lying through his teeth.

~~~

The problem, Sebastian realised, in owning London's most popular club was not that he sullied the family name on a daily basis, nor was it the fact that he was rarely in bed with his wife before sunrise. And it certainly wasn't that he had to suffer through weekly letters from his incensed father, who would rather have a pauper of a son than a working one.

The real problem with owning Jenner's was that when it came to entertaining, it was too gauche to show up as a member and expect the same fawning treatment he would have normally received as the infamous Viscount St. Vincent, reformed rake and future Duke of Kingston.

Rohan had come through in a pinch.

"Well chosen," Sebastian said, clasping Rohan on the shoulder. The look of disbelief on Westcliff's face was priceless, his eyes darting between the weathered old woman lurching between tables and the gnarled appearances of the other patrons. "Perfectly anonymous."

"It's," Westcliff looked to Hunt, who was already laughing, " _quaint_."

"A stiff drink will ease the pain, Westcliff," Sebastian assured him, grinning.

~~~

Which was, Sebastian reflected later, when the entire night veered horribly off course.

~~~

As a boy, Sebastian had done his best to be a perfect little hellion. He did well enough at school, his mind too sharp and naturally talented to score low enough to be an utter embarrassment, but he spent a fair amount of time on his knees, the cold stone floor cutting into his tender flesh, the sting of a particularly vicious thrashing hot on his skin.

Westcliff had taken the birch for him on more than one occasion without complaint.

Sebastian decided to pay off his debt now by making sure Westcliff was well and truly watered, bribing the serving wench handsomely to ensure a steady stream of refreshment. Hunt and Swift were already in their cups, talking louder and most boisterously than propriety allowed, and even the normally steady Rohan was looking a bit wild around the eyes.

Sebastian, for the most part, had lost feeling in his lower extremities some time ago.

"This is horrible," Sebastian said, swishing the warm amber liquid around in his tin cup. He suspected it was brandy, but at this point, he could have been drinking horse piss and not noticed the difference. "An absolute crime to serve something so ... so _horrible_."

"No worse than the swill you made me drink that one time in boarding school."

"That was almost twenty years ago," Sebastian said dismissively, waving his hand and knocking Swift in the head, who peered at him with slitted eyes. Sebastian decided right then and there that anyone who had ever been accused, however wrongly, of theft and then hunted down halfway across the world was all right by him. "And it was a gift."

Westcliff raised his head. "I never did ask what you did to get that."

"Trust me, you don't want to know. Her bed certainly wasn't worth the effort."

Hunt chuckled. "My God, is there anyone you haven't slept with?"

"Your wife," Sebastian replied cavalierly, "though I almost had a go at Westcliff's."

Not the wisest thing to say, Sebastian mused later, wringing the brandy out of his shirt.

~~~

Or possibly, Sebastian thought grimly, limping down St. James Street with an equally pathetic Rohan at his side wearing the shabby remains of a linen sheet, that was the exact moment when the night descended into hell.

Either way, he hoped someone recognised him enough to let him in the front door.

~~~

Sebastian had been resting comfortably with his head on the table, splinters chewing their way into the tender flesh of his cheek. The conversation came in waves. Sebastian knew it was just as well that he was missing most of it since a majority of the words sounded like "soap" and "glycerine" and "scented oils". Sebastian was thankful for the millionth time that Westcliff had saved him from the Bowman legacy of cleanliness for the masses.

"Shoot me," Sebastian muttered, vaguely aware he was drooling on the table, " _again_."

"Oh, believe me," Westcliff said in the vicinity of Sebastian's left ear, "I'm tempted."

~~~

Sebastian woke up when he felt something hot slither over his naked back. He was still stripped to the waist, his shirt and waistcoat draped over the back of his chair drying, and when he tried to move, a hand pressed his head flat against the table. Blearily, he forced his eyes open and met Rohan's wobbly, miserable gaze. Sebastian cleared his throat.

"Eh?" He asked, hoping that covered the array of questions struggling to leave his mouth.

"Poor Rohan's good luck curse seems to have deserted him, at least for this evening," Hunt said, inciting laughter from Westcliff and Swift. Sebastian tried to lift his head again, but Hunt was suddenly there, his arm attached to the hand holding him down. "And do stay still, St. Vincent. I'm not quite done with you. My honour is at stake here."

Sebastian, who was well and truly liquored, took the advice, and remained still as the room spun in dizzying, erratic circles. Above him, Westcliff and Hunt began discussing the state of the locomotive industry in earnest, and Sebastian couldn't take it any longer.

"Christ! Don't you have anything better to discuss? The dreadfully cold weather, perhaps, or the make of Swift's boots ..."

"They're American-made," Swift said.

"How surprising. My point still stands."

"What would you recommend?" Westcliff asked, "and stop moving, Sebastian."

"The overwhelming sense of dread I am currently feeling compels me to do otherwise."

"It's nothing that cannot be undone," Westcliff assured him. "At least in theory."

"Rohan, tell me what the hell these bastards have done to me," Sebastian demanded.

But Rohan, who was half Irish and therefore built to imbibe in copious amounts of alcohol without so much as blinking, had his eyes closed. And every Gypsy Sebastian had ever met had the constitution of a bull, but from the limpid hang of Rohan's arms, Sebastian suspected the man had fallen asleep on him, leaving him to suffer alone.

~~~

Sebastian put up with it for another half hour before he stumbled to his feet. "I need to piss, if you don't mind," he slurred, slapping away the hands that grabbed for him. His body felt off kilter. Taking a step required the concentration of a surgeon. "One moment."

If they protested, he ignored it, using his superior size to force his way through. Sebastian was a large man, broad in the shoulders and chest, with a narrow waist and sculpted thighs. He wasn't thick with muscle like Hunt, or even tightly coiled like Westcliff. And Swift, who made the last attempt to grab him, was downright small, comparatively.

Sebastian staggered down a narrow hall and outside into the crisp night air, frowning at the acrid smell of piss before freeing himself from his breeches and adding to it. He pressed his forehead against the stone of the wall, trying to focus his eyes on his prick.

"Christ," he said, to no one in particular, "I'm bloody drunk."

The door he had escaped from opened, and Rohan fell out, landing with his shoulder against the wall. He looked up at Sebastian under the fringe of his hair, focussing on something just beyond Sebastian's shoulder, and Sebastian followed his unsteady gaze.

"Good God!" Sebastian shouted. "What the hell is that?"

Rohan winced. "Stop shouting."

Sebastian stared at the matching monstrosity twisting out from Rohan's back. " _Christ_."

"Wings," Rohan explained, loosening his breeches. "A competition of superior minds."

"I'll kill them," Sebastian vowed. "I will murder them all without mercy."

"My lord," Rohan said, tightening his breeches, "might I recommend a strategic escape?"

~~~

He would never, Sebastian promised himself as he approached the brick walkway to his house, take Rohan's advice, about anything, ever again.

~~~

Sebastian's plan was comprised of two equally important parts: to find a carriage and to pry these awful things off his back. He followed Rohan through a maze of back alleys, tripping over everything and nothing that got in his way. While Sebastian considered himself savvy in the ways of the world, he was also an aristocrat, far too handsome to be socially acceptable, and the son of a duke who couldn't even fasten his own trousers.

Sebastian had absolutely no knowledge of their current location.

"You better not be leading me to my death, Rohan," Sebastian said.

Rohan looked back at him, more demonic than angelic, even with the motley collection of feathers and wax sprouting from his shoulder blades. "I will have you know," Rohan said carefully, poking Sebastian with a gold-adorned finger, "I am leading us nowhere."

Sebastian mulled this over then asked, "Are you attempting to inform me we're lost?"

Rohan pinched the bridge of his nose. "I drank too much."

"Oh God," Sebastian said, horrified. "I'm going to die looking like a fool."

"These _gadjo_ cities are confusing at the best of times."

"I have to find a carriage," Sebastian said, ignoring him. He looked around, seeing nothing but poverty and laundry, and turned back to Rohan, who had slumped against the wall. Sebastian shook him awake. "Read the stars and find me the nearest major street."

Rohan waved his demands away and resumed walking, weaving in and out of a hundred invisible obstacles. With no better option than a drunken Gypsy with a misplaced sense of direction, Sebastian reluctantly followed him into the dancing shadows of the night.

~~~

Wearing nothing but a pair of breeches and high boots, Sebastian found he had little to barter with when they did happen to find a carriage. The man, toothless and haggard, cackled at him when he approached, inquiring as to the cost to St. James Street.

"I'm Viscount St. Vincent," Sebastian insisted, when the question of payment arose.

"And I'm the bloody Queen of England! Cheat another poor sod out of a free ride, you putrid arsehole."

Sebastian didn't make it a habit to strike defenceless old men, but had Rohan not caught his arms mid-swing and dragged him away, Sebastian would have found himself in fisticuffs with a man who did not even deserve to have a blue-blooded fist reform his face. "Let me go," Sebastian snapped as Rohan steered him onto another deserted street.

Rohan lifted his hands in peace, leaving Sebastian to stagger helplessly for a moment.

"My father is the Duke of Kingston," Sebastian muttered angrily.

"Very impressive," Rohan assured him. "Though might I remind you that we're lost, and I'm drunk, and you do look like a fool," Rohan paused, possibly realising Sebastian was more than happy to redirect his anger towards the nearest body, then added, " _my lord_."

"You're fired," Sebastian snarled, and promptly tripped over his own feet into a pile of refuse.

~~~

Spring seemed reluctant to leave winter behind, a fact Sebastian had not noticed until the brandy began to fade from his blood, leaving him with a fierce headache and an urge to be sick. Walking the streets of London half-naked was rough on even the heartiest of men. Rohan was shivering like a newborn foal, too proud to admit his discomfort. Though Sebastian, in part, blamed him for this mess, Rohan was his best employee, and it would be a shame to have to replace him, especially when it came to his talent with numbers and the fact his father hated that he employed a Gypsy of mixed heritage.

"You may have your job back," Sebastian said, "if you get these awful things off me."

"How generous of you," Rohan replied, more sarcastic than necessary. "Come here."

But Hunt's skill as a craftsman, apparently, was unmatched. Rohan pulled, and twisted, and tugged, before Sebastian had to grab his wrist, fearful he would faint from the pain of having the flesh torn from his body. "Christ, enough! I think they used adhesive."

"Among other things," Rohan said, prodding at the tender skin of Sebastian's back.

"If it wasn't my person these infernal things were attached to, I might commend him on his skill. Though Westcliff, as always, put up a good fight," Sebastian remarked, as the only visible difference between his wings and the ones sprouting from Rohan was colour.

"Damn, that hurts," Rohan said, tugging impatiently at one of his own.

"Don't bother," Sebastian told him. "Anything done by Westcliff's hand is worth its salt."

Rohan combed his fingers through his hair, leaving it more unruly than before, longer than men usually wore it, at least those who mixed with nobles on a nightly basis. Black hair, black eyes, black wings, Rohan looked like Lucifer against Sebastian's Gabriel, with his blonde hair, icy blue eyes and an appearance most often described in shades of gold.

Sebastian eyed him critically. "Have you sobered up yet?"

"No," Rohan said.

"Good man," Sebastian said, gripping Rohan by the shoulder. "I just might have an idea."

~~~

The first order of business was to steal two perfectly functional linen sheets, hung overnight on a line. Rohan, whose sobriety seemed an elusive dream, stood back as Sebastian crept through the shadows, marvelling at the absurd turn his life had taken in the last three hours. With the deftness of a petty thief, he snatched two sheets with nimble fingers. "Jesus, protect me," he heard behind him, and he turned his head sharply.

A woman with wide eyes and a scandalously low cut velvet gown stared at him.

"Good evening," Sebastian said gallantly, gathering the fabric in his arms.

The woman blessed herself then pressed her hands together in prayer, falling to her knees in the middle of the street. From the look of her, she was no older than Evie, but life had been hard for her, the dangers of her profession etched in the deep lines on her face.

Had Sebastian been possessed of anything other than just his wits, he would have spared her a coin, but he did the next best thing. "You're beautiful, sweet. I can't save you, but if you visit Madame Bradshaw and tell her St. Vincent sent you, your life might be better."

For good measure, fearing she might expire on the spot, he put his hand on her head.

She burst into tears, and he made a hasty escape.

"I may have to forgive Hunt for this idiocy. That was delightfully blasphemous."

"That was kind," Rohan remarked quietly, taking the sheet Sebastian offered him.

"Hardly." Sebastian tugged the fabric around his chest in a messy, haphazard pattern, a far cry from the fine shirt he had left behind and would likely never see again. "Need I remind you, Rohan, I just stole bed linens from the poor? And she had lovely breasts."

"She did," Rohan agreed with a lopsided grin.

~~~

The second order of business was to sober Rohan up. They walked in silenced until Sebastian found what he was looking for: a large cistern of what promised to be icy cold water. The trick was to catch Rohan unaware, which was an admittedly difficult task. Rohan had the senses of a hound, able to sniff out trouble before it dunked him headfirst.

"I believe you're in love with my wife," Sebastian said abruptly.

Rohan visibly reeled at the accusation. "Excuse me?"

"I've seen you looking at her," Sebastian said, approaching him like a hunter. Rohan, for his part, stepped back, hands lifted in surrender, dazed. Idly, Sebastian wondered if he should find a doctor for the poor man; Rohan had obviously drunk his weight in spirits.

"She's practically my sister," Rohan protested, backing up. "I remember her as a child."

"Damn you for making me do this, Cam, but it's for your own good." Taking advantage of Rohan's momentary confusion, he grabbed Rohan in a chokehold that had been taught to Sebastian by his unwitting victim and dunked his head into the water. "I apologise."

"God," Rohan yelped, as Sebastian brought him up for air then submerged him again.

"I need your wits about you," Sebastian explained, as he dragged Rohan out again. "I'm a pompous, sheltered nobleman with no idea where he is and a companion who can't tell his arse from his face. I absolutely refuse to be caught out here by any of my peers."

"You son of a ..."

Sebastian dunked him again. "Careful there. My mother was a lovely woman."

"I hate you," Rohan said miserably as Sebastian brought him out for the third and final time and sat him up against the wall. He looked like a drowned rat and Sebastian, feeling a sting of pity, unwrapped the edge of his sheet and gently dried Rohan's scowling face.

~~~

Sebastian had never been good at forming friendships with other members of his sex. For the most part, even as a boy, his schoolmates had abhorred him for a myriad of trivial reasons. Too handsome, too intelligent, too high in the peerage. Sebastian was only a Viscount, but his father, the Duke of Kingston, never let a soul forget his place in it all.

Even Westcliff, who he had known for the better part of a quarter century and who Sebastian had considered his closest friend, had grown to detest him, though he was far too stubbornly polite to even admit his dislike. But Sebastian had known how he felt.

Until he met Evie, Sebastian had agreed with most assessments of his personality.

And even after he married, the situation remained dire. Marcus forgave him for the fiasco involving Lillian Bowman, though Sebastian wasn't sure he could have done the same if someone had stolen Evie out from under him, but the relationship was altered. Not necessarily bad, just different, but Sebastian remained wary of Westcliff's intentions.

Simon Hunt and Matthew Swift were Westcliff's friends, tied together by a thick string of investments and similar interests. If they spent time in Sebastian's presence, it was only because the Earl of Westcliff had invited him out of some misplaced but fierce loyalty.

And Rohan.

Cam Rohan was, perhaps, the closet thing he had to his own friend. They were forced to spend long hours together, trying to rebuild Jenner's from the ground up. Misfits in their own ways, Cam with his mixed blood, half Gypsy, half Irish, fully nothing, Sebastian in a legitimate profession, working for wealth he had always expected to receive on a silver platter. They didn't have to mock him to his face; he knew the things said about him.

He had banned more than one rich man from his club, for things said about Rohan.

"I wish you had friends like mine," Evie had said one night as they shared supper.

"Friendships are feminine desires, love. I'll be happy with men who don't want me dead."

Evie had looked at him with her beautiful blue eyes, a quiet understanding in her expression that had made his chest ache and stole his breath. He bitterly regretted that she knew loneliness so intimately that she could recognise the same hollow feeling in him.

"I think you underestimate them," was all she said as she took another sip of red wine.

~~~

They sat there for a while, watching the sun come up. Rohan looked a bit more with it, his eyes bright behind a veil of damp hair. Sebastian, for his part, could taste the bitterness of regret in his mouth. Rohan had, from the very beginning, protested the evening's endeavours, but Sebastian had used every trick he knew to force him into it.

Manipulation was one of Sebastian's many unsavoury talents.

"Cam," Sebastian said then paused before his next words. "If I hurt you in anyway ..."

Rohan waved away his apologies. "Forget it. I needed the shock. I never lose control like that. I'm ashamed of myself for drinking that much. I didn't even do that as a boy."

"I practically drowned you," Sebastian insisted. "Evie would have killed me, had I succeeded. She's quite fond of you," Sebastian added, a peace offering. He hoped Rohan remembered the various threats Sebastian had uttered over the past year about Rohan's obvious regard for Sebastian's wife, and recognised it for what it was.

Rohan looked at him, eyes clear. "St. Vincent, _enough_ , please. No hard feelings."

"I get maudlin after drinking," Sebastian replied, trying to lighten the mood, and knowing he failed miserably. He laughed softly, mostly at himself, and scratched a hand through his hair. "Christ, what a wild night. I doubt Westcliff will ever speak to me again."

Rohan snorted. "Westcliff would forgive you anything."

"Perhaps at one time."

"You're an idiot," Rohan said bluntly, the surprise of him saying it took away the sting Sebastian felt. He must have shown it on his face, because Rohan's hard expression softened. "He has real regard for you. He defends you. He believes in your worth."

"Careful. You're making me out to be a saint."

Rohan laughed out loud at that, shaking his head. "You're the last person I would call saintly. You're arrogant and high-handed, and trying to get an honest answer out of you is like trying to get blood from a stone. You're too intelligent for a man of your station, which intimidates those brainless cretins that piss away their family fortunes at Jenner's. You're charming to people who detest you and rude to the people you call your friends."

"So I'm a waste of skin," Sebastian said flatly. "You and my father are in total agreement."

"But you're a good man," Rohan replied, continuing as if Sebastian had said nothing. "I think some part of you is damaged, but I also think that damage is slowly being repaired. You push people away from you so they don't see the real man hiding behind the mask. You're afraid of being alone, but you can't stand the idea of losing the people you love, so you push everyone away, hoping they'll think you never needed them in the first place. You're a different man than you were a year ago. The change in you is obvious. We see it. The sooner you accept that you are no longer that empty shell of a man, the better, _phral_."

Sebastian pursed his lips together then exhaled sharply, as if something had loosened in his chest. It took him a moment to gather his bearings, but when he did, he grinned. "I hate it when you use words I don't understand. I'm entirely sure it's never a compliment."

Rohan his eyes and pushed to his feet, offering his hand to Sebastian. Sebastian took it, letting Rohan do the bulk of the work hauling him to his feet. "Don't worry about it. On the bright side, I finally know where we are, and in another quarter hour you'll be home."

"Thank God." Sebastian dusted the dirt off his breeches. "I'm giving you a raise for that."

"Stupid _gadjo_ ," Rohan muttered.

Sebastian, knowing at least one Romany word, laughed.

~~~

"Lady Pembroke," Sebastian said over the laneway separating their households with a slight bow, delighting in the look of absolute disgust that disfigured her face. Lord Pembroke, who frequented Jenner's four times a week, covered his wife's eyes.

Mr. Bentley, who had been his butler since Sebastian first came to London, opened the door even before he knocked. "My lord," Bentley said, in the same dry voice he always used, as if Sebastian and Rohan weren't standing in the entryway with pairs of finely crafted man-made wings sprouting from their backs. "Lord Westcliff, Mr. Hunt and Mr. Swift returned some hours ago, and retired for the evening with the gravest of apologies."

"I'm glad they're not dead," Sebastian replied. "That still gives me a chance to kill them."

"Very good, my lord," Bentley said without batting an eyelash.

"See that Mr. Rohan is given a room and a hot bath, and that no one disturbs him for the rest of the day," Sebastian said, before Rohan could return to his own apartment. It was a testament to his exhaustion that Rohan agreed without comment, following the maid who appeared with a curtsy then disappearing up the stairs. "I, myself, am off to see my wife."

"No bath, my lord? Lord Westcliff asked me to inform you that a deep soak in hot water should remove the apparatus from your skin without grievous injury or disfigurement."

"I would fall asleep in the tub and drown," Sebastian admitted with a grin. "It can wait."

Carefully, he weaved his way through the quiet house, unwrapping the linen from his chest as he walked. He opened the door to his bedroom, greeted with the sight of Evie on her side, her brilliant hair cascading over the pillows. He undressed as quickly as he could manage and slipped in behind her. She woke with a surprised gasp, turning to him.

"You're home," she murmured, touching his face with warm, soft fingers.

"I am," he agreed, kissing her forehead. "I've had a hell of a night, but better than Rohan, We were nearly here then we were intercepted by a pack of eager young men. Needless to say, harsh words were exchanged, fisticuffs ensued, and Rohan ended up in a bush."

"Oh dear," Evie said, smiling. "But Sebastian, darling, are you aware you have wings?"

"Overly," Sebastian assured her, closing his eyes, placing his hand over Evie's belly. Their child, their beautiful and precious baby girl, fluttered gently against his fingertips. Sebastian had begun to worry, after months of trying, that he would never be a father.

"Did you have a good time then?" Evie asked.

"The best," he murmured, smiling into his wife's rose-scented hair, at peace.

  



End file.
